Fern looked at the bubbles in the light, colors sliding all around them, swirling reds and blues. In each bubble was a miniature window, with little panes, just like those in the bathroom.

“Beautiful,” Martha breathed softly.

Fern looked at her daughter’s face. The lips were even, curving in a smile. Her eyes were clear and focused; she looked at the bubbles in amazement, then back to her mother. She held her hand closer to Fern’s face. “See?”

“Yes, they are beautiful.”

“I never saw that.”

“Beauty is all around us, Martha.”

Martha sat up straighter, turned in the tub to face her mother. She rinsed off her soapy hand and touched Fern’s cheek. Fern again admired Martha’s beautiful eyes. Why did she notice them only occasionally? A fingertip traced slowly, carefully, the lines of her cheek, across her cheekbone, one eyebrow.

“Pretty,” Martha said.

“You’re pretty, too.” A tear gathered strength on Fern’s lower lid.

Martha watched it with interest, and as she did so, her mouth began to slacken, one side drooping again, her eyes going vacant, retreating from her face, leaving the horrible nose the dominant feature. The little smile stayed, though.

“Martha?”

Slowly, she slid down into the water, her knees coming up, and she slid back and forth, watching the water lap at the edges of the tub.

“Martha? Talk to me.” The moment had come and gone, and Fern knew it, but she wanted it back again. Wanted it so badly she burned inside.

Martha’s head turned slowly to her, and it was plain that all semblance of intelligence had escaped. The only thing that remained was the smile, crooked as it was, and Fern wondered if maybe Martha’s eyes hadn’t finally been opened to beauty.

She kissed the top of her daughter’s head and went back to the kitchen to finish dinner, pondering the development—if it was development—that had taken place.

Harry came in as Fern was setting the table, and went directly to the shower. Martha came from her room, dressed, still smiling. It softened her face, gave her a pleasant look. She went around the table polishing the spoons on her dress, straightening the plates, rearranging the glasses, and folding the napkins as she’d seen Fern do on Sundays. Then she went outside.

“Dinner’s almost on, Martha. Stay close.”

In just a few minutes she was back, clutching flowers she’d ripped up from the garden, dirt and roots hanging below. With that same little smile on her face, she touched the velvety petals of the colored pansies, then held them up for Fern to touch. Fern smelled them first, then touched the petals gently, and the smile on Martha’s face deepened.